Leverage
by alyca17
Summary: Peter just told him that the man sitting before him, Sam, was his father. Sam's not denying it, but why does he all of a sudden decide to disappear? Did Peter's digging into Sam's identity unintentionally place Neal's life in even more danger? Peter/Neal brother-brother/father-son moments, Sam/Neal father-son, Neal/Sara romance. Rated T just to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: Hello all! Soooo this is my first ever fanfic. I've been reading them for years and years, but have never had time to actually write one. My new job affords me oodles of free time, so I figured, what the hell. Mise well start one of my own. And since I think it is entirely unfair that we have to wait 'til JANUARY for new episodes, I've started my own spin-off of the current story line. It WILL be a multi-chapter story, probably reaching double digits in chapters. It WILL be a completed story as well, so if you're looking for:**

**-Peter/Neal brother/father moments**

**-good old Mozzie humor and his conspiracy theories**

**-hurt/comfort**

**-Neal/Sara**

**-motherly Elle**

**-Action/Suspense/drama**

**-and a healthy does of whumpage for our favorite crime fighting duo, then you're in luck.**

**This story will have it all! **

**This story picks up right after Peter phones Neal and tells him about Sam being his father. I see a ton of different ways that the writers could take the show. Here's mine :)**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer! This story is written purely for entertainment purposes! White Collar and it's characters, while oober awesome, do not belong to me. Only the characters I made up for the sake of this story do :D**

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

A strange mix of relief, joy, and anger roiled around inside of Neal, unsure of how to react to the sudden news that Peter had just relayed to him via phone. He stared at the older man before him, sitting in the iron-wrought chair on the veranda, newspaper in hand.

"That you're my father," the declaration fell from Neal's lips in an almost breathless manner as he awaited _Sam's_ response.

After a moment of silence whereby Sam merely seemed to be mulling over the declaration as if him being Neal's father was suddenly news for him as well. "Your F.B.I. Friend tell you that?" he asked, gruffly, setting the newspaper on the table before climbing to his feet.

Neal couldn't believe it. Was Sam actually going to try and run from this? "He ran your DNA."

This bit of information seemed to irk something in the older man and his eyes turned cold. "The napkin..." he said, realization dawning on him as he recalled Neal tending to his wounds when he was rescued by the younger man.

Neal merely shrugged. "Got sick of waiting for answers."

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Why not? What are you trying to hide?"

Sam responded with a terse shake of his head before storming across the room to leave. Neal was right behind him.

"Sam!" he called, anxious, no, desperate for some answers. He reached for the older man's sleeve and pulled, halting him to a stop just in front of the door. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Glaring daggers at the young man, Sam shook his arm free. "To keep you safe!"

"Wha—..."

"It's always been to keep you safe," Sam reiterated. "If Agent Burke knows who I am, if he ran my DNA through the system, then it's not safe for me here anymore. It's not safe for you to be around me," he continued, expression softening in response to Neal's deer-in-the-headlights-look. "I told you earlier, the people after me don't know about you. I want to keep it that way."

Finding his voice, Neal replied, "I want to help you."

"No."

"Sam, I—..."

"No...Neal. Just please...no," Sam said, an almost pained look etched within his weathered features. He ran a heavy hand through his hair and opened the door. "Look, I'll be in touch. I need to do some reconnaissance—make sure no one's found out about you. Once I find out that you're identity is still safe, I'll come back, and explain absolutely everything to you."

"Wait," Neal called after his father. "What about you?"

"I've been fine looking after myself for all these years. I know how to shake a tail if one pops up. I'll be fine. It's you that I'm worried about. These people...the dirty cops and agents after me, after Ellen's locket...if they find out that you're my son, they'll use you as leverage. They won't hesitate to kill you, Neal."

The prospect of death didn't deter Neal. He had only just found his father, had only just found his means to answers. He wasn't ready to just let his father just walk out again. "Look, Peter knows about you and I. Let him help you. He can give you protection."

Sam shook his head in protest. "Too risky, you know that," he smirked. "Look at you, the great Neal Caffrey, getting all bent out of shape over his old man. I'd find it touching if the situation wasn't so dire."

Neal struggled to stifle is own petulant scowl. "This isn't funny. You walked out of my life for nearly thirty years, and now your back, only to leave again without giving me any explanation as to what the hell happened to drive you away in the first place!" Immediately he clamped up and scrubbed a hand down his face in attempt to calm himself. He rarely ever allowed himself to lose control. He didn't like the sort of person he became when he did—unsure, panic-driven, angry, mean, childish...a complete one-eighty from the cool, suave conman he projected to others.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "Just...hurry back, please. You owe me that, at least. You owe me some answers."

James nodded in agreement. "I know," he said, reaching out and placing a strong hand on Neal's shoulder. "Take care of yourself, kiddo."

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Peter trudged along the path from his car to his house and pushed the front door open, relieved to be home for the night. After spending the last few hours at the office thinking about Neal and the results of the DNA test that confirmed that Sam was indeed Neal's father, he had to admit that his head hurt from thinking. Thinking of how things would change between Neal and himself, how Neal would handle the news of his father, whether this new connection with Sam would place Neal in danger or not from the men pursuing Sam. So many thoughts, so many worries, and not enough sleep or caffeine.

As he hung up his coat and removed his shoes, he couldn't help but wonder how Neal was at the moment. His young friend had mentioned that Sam was over at his place at the time that Peter broke the news. Did Neal kick Sam out? Was is a happy reunion? Did Sam try to deny it?

He supposed that such thoughts were fruitless at such an hour. Surely he would hear about it in the morning when he picked Neal up on the way to the office.

Peter was just about to turn off the last of the lights—Elle and Satchmo having retired a few hours earlier—when there was a knock at the front door. A passing glance to his watch told him it was well past one in the morning. And, while he couldn't deny his surprise at seeing Neal Caffrey standing on his door-step, he couldn't help the tired smile that crossed his face at the sight of his tired consultant trying, but failing, to hide a yawn behind his hand.

Neal was dressed fashionable as always, Calvin-Klein catalog worthy, but it was the beginnings of shadows beneath his usually bright blue eyes that gave him away.

"Tough night?" Peter greeted, ushering the young man inside and out of the bitter Autumn cold.

Neal shrugged, "You could say that," he replied, slipping out of his own coat and hung it in the closet next to Peter's. "Thanks for the bombshell, by the way," he added, tone oozing nothing but bitter sarcasm.

Peter raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, you're the one that submitted evidence with the request to run a DNA test. I was just delivering the results."

Neal rolled his eyes and practically fell into the couch with a heavy sigh, remaining silent enough for the agent to observe him. There was a familiar expression on his partner's face, one that he'd been seeing more and more of lately, ever since Neal had returned for paradise and Ellen was killed. It was a look of pained desperation, a need for answers, anxiety. Peter had to wonder if he was seeing more of the _real_ Neal Caffrey.

"You wanna talk about it?" Peter asked, taking a seat in his recliner.

"Not really," Neal replied, gazing absentmindedly into space as if he were trying to transport himself to another place. It was typical Neal style—clamp up and keep his worries and emotions to himself.

"Nope. You don't get to plead the fifth of this one. It's one in the morning. Something possessed you to walk over here in the cold. What was it? Did you tell Sam about the results? Is that what this little visit is about?"

Neal shrugged.

Peter couldn't help it. He was tired. And when he was tired, his patience ran thin. "Damnit Caffrey. Look, I know that we're still on a bit shaky ground when it comes to trust, and I get that. I messed up. But you said you'd have faith in me if I had faith in you," he started, not entirely certain where he was going with his middle of the night pep talk. How he wished Elle was awake. She was oh so much better with this sort of stuff. "Look at me, Neal," his voice was stern, demanding compliance.

Neal's weary gaze tracked towards Peter's until crystal blue locked with warm brown.

"You're my partner, Neal. Partner's have each-other's backs. I trust you enough to have mine. Please trust me enough to have yours. I only want to help." Peter hoped that Neal would understand the sincerity of his words. It wasn't often that he professed aloud his faith and trust in the ex-con, after all.

A momentary silence fell between the two, during which Peter held his breath in anticipation for the young man's response.

"Sam...well, James..." Neal started, clearing his throat. "He didn't deny it," he added.

Peter raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh? What _did_ he say?"

Silence...

"Neal?"

Again, Neal cleared his throat. "He was angry, at first, when he found out that we had his DNA ran through this system. Something about it being dangerous and would raise just the flags he was trying to avoid," Neal explained. "He's worried that whoever is after him will make the connection that I'm his son and use me against him. He left, said he'd be in touch, that he had to do some reconnaissance to assure that my identity remains hidden. He doesn't want me being used as leverage against him." He snuggled further into the plush cushions of the couch and sighed. "Peter, I'm a convicted felon. My DNA's already in the system. What if someone makes the connection?"

Peter's heart skipped a beat in panic over the sudden revelation, though he did well to keep his expression neutral. Clearly his friend was worrying. He didn't want to fuel that worry by joining in on the panic that Neal's life could very well fall under attack. He would have to pay the F.B.I. Databases a visit and submit a request that Neal's files be placed under lock and key for the time being. "It'll be alright. You've given no one any reason to make a connection between you and your father. Sam..._James_," he corrected, "He's doing you a favor by disappearing for a bit. You understand that, right? He's protecting you."

"I know," Neal mumbled. "I just...It's been nearly thirty years..."

"And you wanted some answers," Peter stated, knowing his partner well.

Neal nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "He said he'd tell me everything when this mess is over."

"Well, there you go," Peter smiled, clapping his hands together before he climbed to his feet. "Everything'll work out."

Neal offered his own tired smile and gave a weak nod. "Yeah..."

"C'mon," Peter said, gesturing towards the stairs. "It's late. Take the guestroom for the night. There's some of your sweats and a t-shirt from last time you passed out over case-files here. We'll swing by June's on the way to the office so you can change. Sound good?"

Neal's smile grew as he rose to his own feet. "Thanks, Peter."

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Dennis Flynn wasn't an imposing young man. Fairly average in appearance with short cropped, brown hair and steely gray eyes, he could easily disappear in a crowd of random, ordinary looking people. Not that he needed an extraordinary appearance to put him above a crowd. Not to say that he didn't have his fair share of muscle and agility, but being the only son of an Irish mob boss granted even the most ordinary of people power and authority beyond their wildest dreams that not even good looks could buy.

He sat, nursing a glass half-filled with whiskey, while a black and white scene played out on the big screen television splayed out across the wall before him in his private study of his mother's estate—an estate gifted to him at the time of his mother's demise some twenty years prior. Not even the feds knew that it belonged to the leaders of the Flynn organization.

As the footage played out and Flynn watched himself leave the dank warehouse room, leaving James tied and bloody to the rickety chair in the center of the empty room, another figure, tall and lean, entered the room with the practiced grace of one experienced sneaking in and out of places.

Intrigued, Dennis took a swig of his drink and reclined further back into the plush recliner. "And who might this bright eyed mouse be?" he wondered out loud, to no one in particular.

The scene continued to play out, and as the rescue carried on on the screen, Flynn's smirk grew. "It would seem that James made a friend..."

Just then, a small, nervous-looking man entered the lavishly decorated room. He drew near and handed Flynn an envelope of papers. "Let us hope here in rests some answers as to the identity of our little hero, shall we?"

The mousy, nervous man responded with a hasty nod of his head. His behavior alone around Dennis served as testament to the young man's authority. "Aye, sir."

"Our little mouse left behind his own fair share of DNA when he stole James from me. Caught up in the moment of rescuing James, Blue Eyes was none too careful in covering his own tracks," Flynn said, opening the envelope. He swiftly removed the few papers from within and read them over. If possible, the snake-like grin on his face grew even longer.

"They were hair samples I had collected from the scene. Well, a few of mine were as well, but you know," he shrugged, casually. Already there was an air of victory swirling around the Irishman. "The DNA match does not lie. Blue Eyes, our little mouse, is _Neal Bennett, _James' only son and child."

"Wh...what are you going to do, sir?"

Flipping open his cell phone, Dennis dialed a number. "You may leave," he muttered towards the nervous little man, whom himself wasted no time departing from the room.

It took only a moment for the call to connect before an overly chirpy, feminine voice responded on the other end. "Federal Bureau of Investigation, New York Organized Crime Division."

"Put me through to Special Agent Robert Connors," Flynn requested. A light chuckle laced his words.

"One moment, please," the receptionist on the other end replied.

There was a brief moment of random beeps before a gruff voice spoke. "Special Agent Connors."

"Robert," Flynn greeted. "I found our key to the locket."

"Dennis? Shit, you know better than to call me at this number," Connors sounded flabbergasted on the other end of the line. "If someone—..."

"He has a son, Connors," Dennis cut the flustered agent off. "James, he has a son. I thought that you would be interested in knowing who it is, as he resides in the very building you work in."

Silence...

"He's currently going by Neal Caffrey," Dennis took the silence as sign to continue. "He was born as Neal _Bennett_."

"Caffrey? He's in White Collar," Connors confirmed. "You mentioned the locket..."

"Yes, the locket that bitch, Ellen, hid before I killed her? Yes, that locket. I'm thinking we could use Blue Eyes—..."

"Blue eyes?"

"Caffrey," Dennis replied. "He has the most extraordinary pair of blue eyes I've ever seen. Perhaps when I'm through with him, I'll keep them as trophies," he smirked, draining the last of his whiskey.

"You think Caffrey knows where the locket is?"

"No," Dennis replied. "But I'm bettin' his old man will sing like a canary once he finds out we have his little boy."

"And if James doesn't? If James doesn't even know where the locket is, then what?"

Dennis shrugged, casually, "Then at least I get some small token of revenge on James, through his son of course, for sending my old man away. No one double crosses my family and gets away with it."

Another momentary lapse of silence drifted between the two, during which the shuffling of papers could be heard on Connors' side of the phone.

"What do you want me to do? Caffrey is serving out a four year prison sentence as a C.I. for White Collar. He's pretty close with his handler, Peter Burke. They make a hell of a team. If Neal goes missing, Peter won't just let that slide. He'll look for him until he finds him," Connors explained. "You better be careful with this one, Flynn."

"Oh, I will. I won't need long with Caffrey. I trust that you can distract Burke and his lackeys long enough for me to work on my end?" Dennis replied, rewinding the footage back enough to watch Neal enter the room and free James again. "Bennett Junior and I have an important appointment."

**To be continued...**

**Thoughts? Questions? Complaints? Reviews? You know what to do :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: If you have been following this story, please re-read the first chapter before continuing onto chapter two. After mulling it over, and for sake of the continuation of this story, I decided to change bits of the ending of chapter one to better fall in line with how I want this story to play out. Apologies for any confusion!**

**Disclaimer! This story is written purely for entertainment purposes! White Collar and it's characters, while oober awesome, do not belong to me. Only the characters I made up for the sake of this story do :D**

**Chapter 2 ~**

"What's with the rush, Peter? At this rate, we'll end up at the office before anyone else," Neal grumbled while trudging up the stairs in June's lavish home to his apartment. The door to his room was pushed open a tad, and from the hallway he and Peter were in, they could hear June and Mozzie talking behind the door.

"Ah, but if I had let you sleep in, we wouldn't have time for breakfast," Peter paused to sniff the air, rather obnoxiously. "Nothing like June's Italian Roast to wake you up in the morning, eh?" he chuckled, pushing passed his glaring consultant. "Come on, we've got half an hour. Let's get a nice breakfast in us, you can do whatever foo foo ritual you do that transforms you into a cartoon, and we can get a nice, leisurely start to the day before we tackle the backlog of mortgage fraud cases waiting for us."

"Sounds thrilling. Really, mortgage fraud. I can't wait," Neal flashed his friend a sarcastic, dazzling smile before shaking his head in mock amusement. He knew what his friend was trying to do—trying to make him feel better, more calm and collected about life after the bombshell of the previous night. "Yeah, can't wait," he repeated in a soft mumble before following the agent inside.

"Neal, there you are," Mozzie greeted between a mouthful of croissant that he washed down with a goblet filled with the sweetest mimosa. "Should've known you'd be with the Suit. You weren't here last night. Something happen?"

Neal crossed his room to the veranda and took a seat across from his land lady, who greeted him with a motherly smile while sipping her coffee. "You could say tha—..."

"A messy case," Peter interjected. "Just popped up. Needed Neal's help to crac—..."

"Sam's my father," Neal deadpanned, cutting the agent off. Simultaneously, June and Mozzie both halted in their tasks in response to the sudden news.

Peter released a heavy sigh and proceeded to plop down in the remaining chair between Neal and June.

"Wait. What?" Mozzie found his voice and fixated his beady little gaze on his friend. "Neal?"

Neal reached for the coffee pot and filled a cup for himself and Peter before meeting Mozzie's gaze. "We ran a DNA test from the blood on the handkerchief I used to help Sam when we found him. The results came back, and when they did, Peter called me with the news. Sam...well, James I guess, he thinks it best if he lays low for awhile so that whoever is after him doesn't make the connection between him and I."

"Humph..." Mozzie murmured. "I see. He doesn't want to risk them hurting you to get to him."

Peter took a swig of his coffee and shook his head. "Nothing's going to happen to anyone, alright. Now hurry up, Neal. Twenty minutes."

"Right," Neal smirked, finishing his coffee and grabbed a danish before he stood to leave.

A knock at the door stopped him and he turned an inquisitive eye towards the agent.

"Expecting someone?" Peter asked.

"No."

Another knock resounded through the apartment, followed by a rather familiar voice. "Neal? Neal, I need to talk to you. Open up."

"Sara?" Neal's tone belayed confusion as he closed the distance between himself and the door, throwing it open in time to see Sara, dressed in a teal dress-coat over a navy blue dress, and knee-high, tan leather boots. An ivory, silk scarf was looped loosely around her neck. She looked beautiful as ever, cheeks rosy from the bitter cold of the out doors, and the curly tendrils of her hair windblown, only adding to her sultry appearance. That is, if her wide eyes weren't conveying a strange mixture of nervousness and fear.

"Sara, what can I do you for?" he greeted, taking in her appearance. "Everything alright?"

"Neal, I..." she stepped into the room, but her words fell short when she realized that they weren't alone. "Oh. Good morning, Peter, Mozzie, June."

"Sara," Peter acknowledged, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Good morning, Sara. Care for some breakfast?" June asked, ever the dutiful hostess.

"No thank-you. I was actually hoping to speak with Neal for a bit," Sara replied. "Guess it'll have to wait."

"I can meet up tonight," Neal said, picking up on his ex-girlfriend's disappointment. "Six alright with you? We can grab a bite to eat and talk."

Sara nodded. "Yeah, yeah that works."

"Great," Neal smiled. "See you tonight, then."

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They hadn't even taken two steps into the office before Hughes appeared outside his office, giving Peter a very firm double-finger point. "Burke. Conference room."

"In trouble already, Peter?" Neal chuckled, plopping down in his seat before propping his feet up on his desk. A brilliant smile lit up his face and his blue eyes gleamed with mischief, a rather big change from the fidgety, unsure young man who graced Peter's home the night before in search of advice and guidance. "Better hurry. Hughes is still glaring at you," he added in an overly dramatic stage whisper.

Peter just glared at his consultant, lips pursed. Every day he spent with the young man, he found it more and more a difficult task to reach the young man's surface. One minute he'd be as petulant and whiny as a child. The next he'd be stoic and unsure—confused and in need of direction. Then there was his present side—mouthy, obnoxious, confident...one-hundred-percent Neal Caffrey. It was hard to follow some days.

"Mortgage fraud. Now," Peter said, tone leaving no room for Neal's typical banter as he bounded up the stairs to the conference room. Diana and Jones were seated in chairs across from each-other, while Hughes took a seat at the head of the table. Agent Ruiz from Organized Crime was present as well, as was another that Peter didn't recognize.

"Peter," Hughes greeted, gesturing for his senior agent to take a seat.

"Hughes. Jones, Diana, Ruiz," Peter greeted, nodding to each in turn. "And you are?" he asked, holding a hand out to greet the unfamiliar man across the table from him.

"Special Agent Connors, Organized Crime," the older man replied, standing to shake Peter's hand. "I've heard a lot about you and your team. Very impressive how well you White Collar fellows seem to work together," he chuckled. Not very imposing of a man, Agent Connors was older—a good ten years older than Peter. His short cropped, thinning hair was already a glistening silver, while wrinkles and crows feet marred his deeply tanned complexion. His weary green eyes were kind and soft, and the smile he wore on his face had Peter wondering how such a gentle looking man could have ever made a successful career in Organized Crime. Most agents he met from that particular division were more like Ruiz—cold, cocky, arrogant...

"Yes, well, the luck of the draw, I suppose. Just got blessed with incredibly talented agents who work well with me," Peter chuckled in response.

"Yes, I've met Agents Barrigan and Jones," Connors said, nodding towards the two agents. "Quite the caliber of talent, as you said."

"Alright, alright," Ruiz took that moment to interject his two cents. "Any more flattery and Burke's ego will grow to rival Caffrey's," he sneered.

Peter all but rolled his eyes as he took a seat. "Ruiz, what can White Collar do for you?"

"I honestly don't think Organized Crime needs your help, but Connors here thinks that we do," Ruiz practically spat.

"I've been working a case, tailing members of the Irish mob and the like," Connors took lead of the conversation, standing to pass around some photos to the small gathering. "Late last night, one of my undercovers turned up dead. He was infiltrating the one of the mobs factions—as you know, the Irish mob has a number of wanna be leaders. The faction I've been investigating is led by a drug lord, O'Reilly, seen in the pictures. He deals primarily in the drug trafficking of marijuana, but also deals a bit in arms trafficking and money laundering. He has also made a name for himself in the underground art world, buying and fencing stolen pieces and other antiquities. He does it all, and violently. Whenever he pops up on our radar, there's normally a body count as well. We've just never been able to actually pin anything on him."

At the final statement, Peter quirked a brow. "Really? Why not?"

Connors shrugged. "He has a loyal following, and the best lawyers that money can buy. You know how mob bosses are."

Peter nodded in agreement, analyzing a closeup of the mob boss in question, O'Reilly. He was about Peter's age, with slicked back, fiery red hair, narrow emerald green eyes, and a peaches and cream complexion. The sharp angles of his face gave him an almost hawk-like appearance. He was dressed to the nines in a tailored, navy blue suit, typical of the style that Neal normally dressed in. "Yeah, I do. Lots of speculation but never any solid evidence linking them to a crime."

"Indeed," Connors agreed.

"So, you think O'Reilly had your undercover killed?"

"I do."

"Taking down O'Reilly would be a huge win for the Bureau," Hughes spoke up. "His allegded crimes span departments. If we wanna catch him, we're going to have to join forces."

"What about Neal?" Peter asked, briefly glancing down into the bullpen. Only to top of Neal's head was visible amidst the piles of cases on his desk. "If this guy has dealings in illegal art buying and selling, Neal could go underco—..."

"While I've heard nothing but praises about your consultant," Connors cut off, a kind smile stretching across his face. "I'm afraid O'Reilly, or members of his faction, have had past dealings with him as Steve Tabernacle. No, for Mr. Caffrey's protection, he will not be privy to this particular investigation."

"I see," Peter muttered, supposing it was possible for Neal to have had dealings with the Irish mob in the past. "But they would know him as Steve Tabernacle, not F.B.I. consultant, Neal Caffrey," he noted.

"Any mob is a dangerous organization, Agent Burke. From what I understand, Mr. Caffrey has been working for the F.B.I for nearly three years now. That is a lot of time for his status as a snitch to filter amidst the underground," Connors explained. "I have been told that you and Mr. Caffrey are rather close. I am requesting Caffrey's absence from this case as a favor to you, for fear that he'd be made should he partake in an undercover investigation."

"Besides, organized crime already as a number of agents undercover," Ruiz pointed out.

"Then what do you need White Collar for?" Peter asked.

"Surveillance," Hughes replied. "Consider the van your home for the next few nights."

"Surveillance?" Peter deadpanned. "Seriously?"

"Just until we find something solid to pin on O'Reilly," Connors said, apologetically. It was no secret that Peter despised the van. "Organized Crime will do all the heavy lifting on this one. We just need The Archaeologist and his analytical eye to help us out a bit."

Peter stifled an amused chortle. The Archaeologist? He hadn't been referred as the archaeologist in some time. "It'll just be after hours? For only a few nights?"

Connors held up two fingers and nodded. "Scouts honor. You have my word. With all the manpower going into this investigation, I know we'll have it closed soon."

"In the mean time," Hughes interjected. "Business as usual. Mortgage fraud, until something better rolls along."

Again, Peter's gaze was drawn towards Neal's desk and he smiled. "Suppose there could be worse things that the van and mortgage fraud."

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"So, new top secret case?" Neal prodded, twirling a pile of noodles around his chopstick while he sat across from Peter at a park picnic table during their lunch.

Peter shrugged. "Not really top secret," he said, taking a bite from his lo mien. "Agent Connors just thinks it's a good idea, with your history and all, to keep you away from the case."

"Oh?" Neal's brows crawled up his forehead as he pondered his friend's words. "He think I'm a risk?"

"On the contrary. He's worried you'll get hurt."

At this, Neal couldn't help the disbelieving laugh that fell from his lips. "Since when did organized crime care about my well being?" he scoffed.

"Who said anything about your well being?" Peter smirked.

Neal dramatically placed his hands over his heart. "Please, Peter, your words wound me so."

Peter laughed a bit and took another bite of his take-out. "Connors knows how close we are. He said he's keeping you out as a favor to me."

"Well, that's considerate of him."

"Yeah, well, don't feel too bad. Least you don't have to do surveillance for the next few nights. We're staking out an Irish mobster, O'Reilly. He has dealings in practically everything illegal. Bringing him down would be a big win for the Bureau."

Neal made a face and shook his head. "Yeah, have fun with that."

"You ever hear of him? O'Reilly?"

Neal shook his head. "Don't think so. You said Irish mob? Any chance you'll be investigating the Flynns?"

"Nah, different faction," Peter responded. "If they do pop up, I'll fill you in, how 'bout that?"

"Yeah, thanks."

A comfortable silence befell the two as they finished up their lunches.

"Any word from Sa—James? Your father?" Peter inquired, changing the subject.

"Nah."

"How you holdin' up?"

"M'fine," Neal lied, flashing his trademark smile. The look on Peter's face told Neal that the agent wasn't buying it, though, and he sighed. "I'll just be glad once I have some answers."

"Yeah, well, all in time," Peter replied, standing to clear away his trash. "C'mon, we're gonna be late getting back."

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Neal stood on the stoop of June's mansion long enough to wave as Peter drove off towards his own home. A part of him felt bad that his friend only had time enough to run home and pack a sack dinner before having to spend the remainder of the night in the van with Diana and Jones.

The other part of him, though, was relieved. He hated the van. That, and he had a dinner date with Sara in an hour that he was anxious for—anxious in that he still had feelings for her. It didn't help any that Sara had come off as nervous about something earlier that morning. He could only hope that whatever Sara had to tell him wasn't too earth shattering. After all, he had enough on his plate with the fiasco surrounding his father.

Bounding up the staircase, he was barely inside when Mozzie's voice filled his ears, startling him enough that he jumped a bit in surprise.

"You're gonna be late," Mozzie pointed out, noting the time between mouthfuls of expensive Merlot.

"Mozzie, geesh, heart-attack much!?" Neal scolded, catching his breath while he disappeared into his closet to change. "Peter got tied up with paperwork for his stakeout tonight. We left a bit late," he explained, slipping out of his forest green, button-up shirt and opted for a pale blue one instead.

"Ah, the suit has surveillance duty?"

"Yeah, he has to work the van for the next few nights. I'm persona non grata, according to the lead agent—Connors, I think."

"For surveillance? What harm can you do in the van? What kind of case is this?"

Neal finished dressing in a navy blue Devore and stepped back out to face his friend. "Irish mob."

"I see. Is the Flynn organization involved? Because you know how suspicious that would be? You being persona non grata and all, separated from your F.B.I. buddies and all."

"Moz, there's no conspiracy here. Just a boring surveillance that organized crime asked Peter for help with."

"Whatever you say," Mozzie replied, draining his glass.

"Besides, Peter said that if anyone from the Flynn organization does pop up during his time in the van, he'd let me know," Neal said, tossing a matching navy blue fedora on his head. "Godda go. See you later, Moz."

"Ah, well, in that case, ciao, good sir. Give my best to the pretty lady."

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She wasn't too worried when Neal was fifteen minutes late. She figured he'd just gotten tied up at the office with Peter, so she primped some more until every strand of her freshly washed hair was molded perfectly. While she and Neal had been broken up for some while now, she couldn't deny the feelings she still had for the young conman.

Half past six and Sara was calling both Neal and Peter's cell-phones.

No answer.

Traffic, perhaps? Maybe there was a break in a case. While she was a bit miffed at not being notified that he'd be late, she rationalized that a break in the case might be preventing Neal from contacting her.

An hour dwindled by...

An hour and a half...

Two hours and she was knocking on the Burke's front door, worried out of her mind and desperate to learn the whereabouts of the man who never showed to take her to dinner.

The door opened to reveal Elizabeth, groomed brows knit in confusion.

"Elizabeth," Sara greeted. "I don't suppose that Neal and Peter are here?"

"No. Peter's got surveillance duty tonight. He dropped Neal off at June's after work—said something about you, him, and dinner? He never showed?"

Sara shook her head and Elizabeth gestured her inside before turning towards the kitchen. "Mozzie!"

Moments later, the conman entered the room, eyes widening upon sight of Sara.

"Mozzie, have you seen Neal?" Sara asked, nearly pleading.

Mozzie frowned and pulled his phone from his pocket, checking it for missed calls and messages. There were neither. "Not since he left to meet with you. That was hours ago, though," he said, dialing a number. It rang a number of times before Neal's voicemail message played on the other end. He hung up his phone and shook his head, a wary expression etched on the palette of his face. "This is odd."

Just then, the front door opened to reveal Peter and Jones.

"Peter? Home so soon?" Elizabeth greeted, a look of disappointment on her face when it became obvious that Neal was not with her husband.

"Coffee run. Diana's holding down the fort," Peter replied, taking in the frowns and looks of distraught staring back at him. "OK, what did Neal do this time?"

The all-too familiar prick of tears stung Sara's eyes as worst case scenarios began playing in her head. "Neal, he never showed. He's not answering his phone."

"What? I dropped him off at his place over two hours ago," Peter mused, dialing a number on his phone. It only took a moment for the call to connect. "June? Hi. Is Neal there? No? When did you last see him? When he left to meet Sara? OK. What? No. He's missing. Yeah, I'll keep you posted. Alright, good-night, June," he disconnected the call. With a furrowed brow, he pulled Neal's tracking data up on his phone. What he saw stole his breath away.

"What is it?" Sara was almost afraid to ask.

"His tracker...it's been _legally _disconnected by a standard issue Marshals key. Now way of telling who authorized it. This makes no sense. Why wouldn't I have been notified?"

"What does this mean?" Sara couldn't stop the tear that slipped from her eye.

"I..." Peter stammered. "He could be anywhere."

"Why wasn't he allowed in on surveillance with you?" Mozzie asked, as if a sudden revelation had dawned on him.

"The agent in charge, Connors, was afraid that the group we're investigating knows Neal. He didn't want to take any chances with Neal's safety. Why?"

"Sounds awfully convenient to me. Who were you investigating?" Mozzie pressed on.

The lines around Peter's eyes and mouth deepened. Just from looking at him, Sara could tell that some sort of puzzle was piecing itself together in the agents mind. "Irish mobster, O'Reilly. You know him?"

"No, and neither does Neal. We've always strayed clear of the mob," Mozzie explained. "So, Connors walks in with a case that separates him from you, and suddenly he goes missing? There's a handful of Irish mob factions. You end up investigating one, while Neal's father, who's suddenly high-tailed it outta here to protect Neal, was involved with another faction. Does anyone else not smell a giant fish here? Perhaps, Suit, your sudden requested involvement in an organized crime case is just some sort of misdirect. I'd look into this Connors, if I were you."

"Wait, you think something _bad_ happened to him?" Sara gasped.

Mozzie responded with an uncomfortable shrug of his shoulders. "Why else hasn't he called or contacted any of us? Why isn't he answering his phone? You can't tell me it's all just coincidence."

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose while he pondered their options. "OK, Jones, go back to the van. I'm going to swing by Neal's place to check for anything out of the ordinary. I'll call you when I'm done."

Sara couldn't take this. Suddenly, there seemed like there was no air in the room. Panic was closing in on her. She needed Neal. She didn't know how to handle the new little issue in her life without him, so she did the only thing her body deemed rational at the moment. She began to cry. Over the last few months, her emotions had been getting harder and harder to control.

A gentle arm around her trembling shoulders drew her from her thoughts and she leaned into Elizabeth's motherly embrace.

"Shhh...it'll be alright. We'll find him. Peter always does."

"No," she sobbed. "It's not...not OK," tears blinded her as she contemplated a possible life without Neal. "I need him," she cried. "We need him."

"Who? What's going on, Sara?" Peter asked.

Another sob wracked her frame before she got the courage to respond. "I'm...I'm pregnant."

_**To be continued**_

**Thoughts? Questions? Complaints? Reviews? You know what to do :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note:  First and foremost, I'd like to thank everyone who has added this story to their favorites or are following this story! Also, a huge thank-you to all the reviews. Seriously, they make my day :)**

**Lastly, apologies for the late update. When I first started this story, I thought I'd have tons of time to write. Alas, work and all of the time being spent starting up my own daycare is cutting into my free time. Don't fret. I have no intention of putting this story on the back burner. I'm trying super hard to post a new chapter every week, and would even like to start adding two or three a week. Rest assured, this will be a completed story—probably between 7-10 chapters when all is said and done. I WILL NOTabandon it :)**

**This chapter contains small spoilers/references to episodes 'Payback' and 'Most Wanted'. **

**Disclaimer: This story is written purely for entertainment purposes! White Collar and it's characters, while oober awesome, do not belong to me. Only the characters I made up for the sake of this story do :D**

**Chapter 3 ~**

The first thing he noticed was the darkness—even when he knew that his eyes were indeed open. After a moment of panic—albeit, brief, his rational side deduced that he was blindfolded.

The second thing he noticed was that his freedom of movement was being restricted by something. Chains? No. Something soft. Zip ties? No, not plastic. Rope. Yes, rope. He recognized the scratchy, rough feeling of rope rubbing against his skin, trapping his arms behind some sort of pole behind him.

Carrying out a further inventory of his predicament, he could only conclude that he was sitting, tied to a chair with his ankles, thighs, chest, and wrists, bound with rope. Testing the restraints, he also guessed that said chair and himself were further strapped down to the pole that his arms had been roughly pulled behind. The tension on his arms was already beginning to send a dull, pulsing throb across the rest of his upper body.

As much as he hated to admit it, whomever had captured him had truly done their homework. He was well and truly trapped. No locks to pick. He couldn't help the disbelieving laugh that bubbled from his throat, only to be muffled by the fabric gag wrapped around his mouth.

His humorless laughter was cut short by a wave of nausea, as a throbbing pain pounding inside his head made itself known. He had to choke back the urge to vomit, not wishing to choke on it. He figured he had a concussion of sorts, another deduction made from not only the nausea and mounting headache, but also from the warm stickiness of what he could only assume was blood, matting the left side of his face.

_Head wound, _he wondered, trying desperately to remember what had happened to him that led to him waking up in the mystery house of horrors. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but it was clear to him that his body was still reeling from whatever had knocked him out in the first place.

He remembered leaving Mozzie and walking outside. He had taken a few steps in the direction of Sara's apartment, and then...nothing.

Heaving a despairing sigh, Neal could do little more than lean against the pole behind him. Very rarely had he ever found himself so trapped. He was a master escape artist, after all. He wondered if Sara was angry with him, for not showing up for dinner. She would have started worrying, probably would have called Peter to ask about his whereabouts. Peter would check his tracking data and find him. Peter always found him.

It was then, with chilling realization, that a third thing became apparent to him. His ankle where he wore the tracker felt unusually light and bare—save for the ropes.

Blue eyes widened in uncharacteristic fear beneath the blindfold. His anklet was gone. Peter would not be finding him anytime soon.

Neal was on his own.

_Alright, c'mon Neal, calm down. Panicking never helps..._he coached himself, fighting to control the anxiety threatening to drown him. Before he could calm himself further, though, the uncanny sound of a heavy, steel door opening echoed throughout the room he was in.

In the moments that followed, there was silence, leading Neal to wonder if anyone was even in the room with him. That was, until the scuffing of heavy footsteps walking across cement met his ears.

"Good evening, Mr. Caffrey."

Neal tensed in response to the familiar voice addressing him. _Kramer,_ he all but screamed in his mind, alarm bells blaring madly.

"I trust you know who I am, but for the protection of my partners, who will be joining us shortly, the blindfold will remain on," Kramer all but chuckled. "Don't take it personally, I always liked you. It's just, well, you know—can't have you knowing where you are and who your captors are, not when we plan on sending you back to Petey eventually."

"What makes you think I won't turn you in?" Neal asked through the fabric over his mouth, yet the gag made the words sound like nothing more the garbled nonsense.

"Ah yes, how's about I return your freedom of speech for a bit, shall I?"

Even without seeing the older man, Neal could practically hear the wicked smile in Kramer's words as he promptly removed the gag.

"What's going on? D.C. Art Crimes in the business of kidnapping now?" Neal hissed. The time for formalities had ended when he woke up gagged, bound, and blindfolded. "Couldn't bear the fact that Peter managed to keep me out of your hands, so you had me kidnapped? That's a new low."

Kramer responded with a condescending chuckle. "Really, Mr. Caffrey, you over-exaggerate your importance. You're merely a pawn in the broader scheme."

This gave Neal pause for thought. "What are you talking about?"

"Have you heard of a man by the name of James Bennett, Mr. Caffrey?"

It was as if the breath had been knocked out of him—a bucket of icy water dumped over his head, numbing him to his core. Certainly Kramer couldn't be connected to the fiasco with his father, could he? No. No way.

"He was partner's with a wonderful woman. You might have known her as Ellen."

"I...I don't know what you're talking about," Neal lied, but even to his own ears it didn't sound convincing.

"Oh? See, I think you know her. She practically raised you, right? Pity the way she was gunned down outside her home."

He knew. Kramer knew about him—about his father, and Ellen. And if Kramer knew, then whoever he was working with or for also knew. The fact that he didn't yet know who was pulling all the strings frightened him more than Kramer at the moment, and suddenly his father's words resounded in his head, the words he told him right after Neal had rescued him from Dennis Flynn.

"_They don't know about you. Keep it that way," _his father had told him.

Realization slammed into him like a two-by-four and his breath nearly hitched before he spoke his next words. "You're working with the Flynn organization, aren't you?"

Silence...

"I don't know much about them, only that they have some sort of score to settle with James Bennett, and that it's rumored that there's a number of corrupt government officials in leagues with them. You're one of them, aren't yo—..."

A sharp punch to his gut cut him off and he doubled over in pain, as far as his restraints would allow.

"You're only corrupt if evidence gets out to prove the accusation," all humor was gone from Kramer's tone as he leaned in close to Neal—so close that Neal could feel his breath tickling his cheek. "That'll never happen."

"Yeah?" Neal panted, recomposing himself. "We'll see."

"No, Mr. Caffrey, or rather, Mr. Bennett, we won't. You see, when you leave here, you will be so far gone—so broken that you'll never be able to speak again. What we have planned for you...well, let's just say that our methods of obtaining information have been condemned and frowned upon for centuries. You will tell us what we want to know, and instead of drawing out your suffering, we might grant you a merciful, swift death."

"Philip, I do hope you're not terrifying the lad too much," an unfamiliar voice spoke up from the doorway.

"Not at all," Kramer replied, straightening his posture to greet the newcomer. "Just telling him how it is—what's expected of him and all."

"Of course," the other man agreed, velvety-smooth voice laced with a tinge of an Irish accent.

An uncomfortable silence claimed the room, during which Neal could only assume the two men were eying him.

"So, young Bennett...let's get down to business," the unfamiliar man began.

"Who are you?" Neal demanded to know. He tried his best to mask his uneasiness, but feared the slight tremble of his words gave him away.

"Who I am is of no significance. This confrontation is not about me, but rather, it is about you, and what you can offer me. If I am pleased with the information you give me, you will be returned to your home, your life, Peter Burke, Mozzie, and your on-again, off-again woman, Ms. Ellis."

At the mention of his friends, he tensed again. It was one thing to know about Peter and Sara, but an entirely different thing to know about Mozzie, too. No one knew about Mozzie, ever—only those who Mozzie _wanted _to know him, knew him.

The Irishman must have sensed his tension, because an amused laugh erupted from him. "Yes, Neal, I know about all of them. I know about Peter and his wife, Elizabeth. I know about your little con friend, Mozzie, your little girly friend, Sara, your lovely landlady, June Ellington, and even your growing relationship with agents Barrigan and Jones. I know everything about you, Neal. I know that you grew up in witness protection with your mother and Ellen. Your mother wasn't around as much as she should have been, so Ellen practically raised you. You're father disappeared when you were a small child after confessing to a murder and turning state's evidence against the Flynn organization. I know that you had a bright future ahead of you, aspirations of becoming a cop, like your father, until Ellen told you about him when you were eighteen. I know about how you ran away, took your mother's last name and became Neal Caffrey, con-artist extraordinaire," the man continued. "But, most importantly, I know that your father, James, has recently made himself known to you. Tell me where he is, and I will let you go."

Neal was stunned. Few people knew about his childhood. The man before him had not only done his homework on him, he had become an expert on him—but how? "How...? How do you know so much about me?"

"Call it my little pet project," the man replied. "Your father betrayed someone very important to me. When he did so, I made it my business to learn everything about his family. I knew about your life in witsec, but, I'll admit, I lost track of you for awhile after you ran away at eighteen. Imagine my glee when I found out that you were Neal Bennett, a C.I. working for the F.B.I.?"

"How'd you find out? Kramer?"

"I had my suspicions, after I found out who you had met with on Roosevelt Island," Kramer smiled.

"The final evidence linking you to James as his son came when you rescued him yesterday," the Irishman added. "DNA evidence, a marvelous method of turning suspicion into cold hard truth. I must say, for as much as Kramer talks you up as being this brilliant golden boy for the White Collar division, you weren't too smart about covering your tracks when you freed your father. Rookie mistake," he chuckled. "Now, tell me where James is."

"I don't know," Neal snapped, tugging on his restraints. "He went underground, said it was to protect me," he scoffed. "'lot of good that did. What is it exactly that you need him for?"

"He has something very important."

"Ellen's locket."

"You know of it?" the Irishman questioned, interest perked.

Neal nodded. "I know that she had a locket. Dunno where it is, though. Neither does my father. We were working together to find it."

Another sharp punch to his gut had him gasping for air before a strong hand wrapped it's fist through his hair, forcing his head back against the pole. "If you wish to leave this place with your tongue and hands in tact, you will tell me where your father is, and everything you know about where the locket might be."

"I...I...don't know," Neal gasped. "I really don't know anything."

"I truly wish you had a different answer. No answers mean that you have little usefulness," the man hissed, and Neal could hear the clicking of his footsteps as he circled the pole, eying him as a lion would it's prey. "If I can't use you for information, I can at least reign down some hell on your sorry little ass for what your father did to mine," he spat, and, before Neal even had time to react, a searing pain consumed his body and mind before darkness took him.

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"Peter, what brings you here at such an hour?" June was walking out of her lavish home, dressed to the nines in an expensive dress and fur coat, when Peter arrived at her residence. "Any word from Neal?"

Hands on his hips and analytical brown eyes surveying the area around the front of the mansion, Peter shook his head. "Not yet. That's why I'm here. I thought I'd check to see if I could find anythi—..." a spark of something wet on the ground near the alleyway cut his words short. "June? Have you been home all evening?"

"Yes," the older woman replied, following Peter's gaze towards the alley beside her home.

"I don't suppose you've heard anything out of the ordinary? Sounds of a fight? Screeching tires? Anything outside that you can think of?" he asked, closing the distance between himself and the alley in four long strides. He bent down towards the small smear of wetness on the ground and dipped his finger into it. "Blood," the word fell from his lips in a choked whisper.

"No, I've heard nothing out of the ordinary. Of course, I've been playing the piano for the better part of the evening," June replied, joining Peter's side. "Is that...?"

"Blood?" Peter finished the woman's question and nodded, retrieving a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket. He mopped the blood up with the cloth and stood to leave.

"You don't think that Neal is hurt, do you?" June asked, brow knitted in new-found worry.

"I don't know what to think," Peter replied. "Look, I'm going to call Diana and Jones and have them meet me at the office. We're going to figure out what's going on, and we're going to find Neal. He'll be fine."

June nodded in agreement and gingerly patted a supportive hand on Peter's shoulder. "I...please, find him. Bring him home."

"I will."

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Agent Connors was what some would call and 'Average Joe'. Nothing about him set him apart from anyone. He went to work, did his job well, and went home at the end of the day to a wife, two kids, and a beautiful house in the suburbs. Nothing special, but it was a simple life that he enjoyed. It was the job he had in his off hours, in the shadows, that he loathed.

He had never been an overly brave man, and ever since he had gotten involved with the Flynn organization some thirty years prior, he had made it his habit of always looking over his shoulder. After all, mobsters weren't exactly known for their honest, kind ways. They could plug a bullet in your back if you looked at them the wrong way; especially Dennis Flynn. Young, strong-willed, and oozing with a desire for revenge in the name of his deceased father, Dennis Flynn was one of the most dangerous mobsters in New York, and Connors just so happened to be one of his inner circle. Sure such a position had its perks. After all, he never would have been able to give his family their classy lifestyle on the meager F.B.I. salary he was on, but some days, like today, he couldn't help but wonder if it was all worth it.

He waited for Dennis to clean off the blade of his old hunting knife before allowing his gaze to settle on the bleeding man bound and blindfolded. From the looks of it, the wounded man was unconscious. Connors could only hope that the young C.I. had passed out quickly, before Dennis got carried away with his barbaric torture methods.

Connors, while sympathetic towards the young man, couldn't also help but feel the blade of guilt twisting in his heart. After all, he had played a key role in separating the conman from his handler long enough for Dennis to get his hands on him.

"Connors, any word on whether or not Burke knows of Caffrey's whereabouts?" Kramer asked, drawing Connors from his empathetic thoughts.

"What? Oh, yes. No. No, Agent Burke doesn't know where his pet is," he opted to refer to their prisoner as _pet_ for sake of concealing his true thoughts of the conman. For thirty years he had managed to wiggle his way deep into the Flynn organization. He would not allow the startling sight of Neal Caffrey, bleeding out from multiple expertly placed stab wounds, to ruin that. "Last I checked, he was in the surveillance van with his agents, working on the case against O'Reilly."

"Perfect. You've done well," Dennis praised, placing the knife on a solitary shelf near the door. "It's time to get the word out of our little prisoner to the underground. If his father is out there, and if he truly cares for his son, he will make himself known, and we will make our move on him."

"You really think he will come for a son he showed no interest in for thirty years?" Connors asked, secretly unconvinced with the mobster's plan. "You don't think he'll see this for what it is? A trap?"

"He stayed away from his son for thirty years because he _did_ care for him. Don't you see? His absence from his son's life protected the boy," Dennis replied, fisting his prisoner's hair enough to pull the unconscious man's head back. Blood smeared the canvas of his face like a gruesome mask, a stark contrast to the deathly pallor of his complexion. "And it is that protective nature for this little shit that will blind James long enough for him to attempt a rescue. Blue eyes, here, is just our bait."

Connor's gulped down the need to vomit at the sight of the blood. There was so much blood, the stale air of the cell wreaked of it. It coated the young C.I., giving him the appearance of some sort of zombie reject.

"Well," Dennis clapped his hands together, striding passed Connors with Kramer tailing him. "I could go for some grub. Let me know if Burke catches on to our little game."

"Of course," Connors replied.

"And patch him up a bit, will you? I'd rather his death be stalled enough for his daddy to see the light dim from his eyes."

Connors shifted his gaze from the mobster to the prisoner to hide his frown. "Of course," and, as the sound of Flynn and Kramer's footsteps disappeared down the hall, Connors made a decision. Retrieving the hunting knife from the shelf, he approached the unconscious man with a heavy heart.

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"_Aunt Ellen? Why do we always come to this park?" the inquisitive, sing-song voice of a six-year-old Danny Brooks asked of the older woman sitting next to him on the park bench. _

_It was a beautiful autumn day. The sky was blue, the air was cool and crisp, and the leaves of the trees were a beautiful array of golds, oranges, reds, and purples. Halloween was just around the corner, and they had only just left the costume store to pick Neal up a Mario costume for school when Ellen suggested a quick visit to the park. Sharing his aunt's love for the outdoors, and because the visit meant he could put off having to see his mother drunk, Danny had agreed. _

"_Well," Ellen smiled, motioning towards an intricately carved statue of a violin player a few yards away from where they were sitting. "That happens to be my favorite statue in all of New York," she answered. "It was my mother's favorite. When I see it, I'm reminded of her and all of the times that she took me to the park when I was just a kid myself."_

"_Ohhhh," Danny drew out the word with a soft giggle. "So you like this park for the mem'ries," he stated, jumping down from the bench to run over to the statue. Once at the base, he gazed up at the violin player with an adoring smile. "Then this is my favorite statue in allllll of New York, too," he beamed, glancing up at the older woman when he felt her protective hand on his shoulder. "Is that OK? If I have the same favorite as you?" _

_A beautiful bubble of laughter erupted from the woman and she nodded her consent. "Of course, dear." _

_If possible, Danny's smile grew, and he returned his gaze to the statue. "What a pretty necklace," he said. _

"_Yes, it's a locket. A very special locket," Ellen said. "One day, when you're older, I'll tell you the story of that locket."_

"_Why can't you tell me the story now?"_

_Ellen patted his back, ushering him along. "It is a complicated story. Not the fun kind. You will understand it better when you're older. Now, come along. Your mother's waiting for us and we still have to pick up the pizza on the way home."_

_Danny's face lit up with glee. "Pizza!" he cheered. "Hurry, Aunt Ellen! Can't keep mamma waiting!" he shouted, skipping ahead of the woman. However, when he noticed that she wasn't following, he turned around to see why she wasn't._

_A frown tugged at his lips when he couldn't find her. "Aunt Ellen?" he called, taking small, hesitant steps back towards the violin player. "Aunt Ellen?!"_

"_Neal?" he heard an unfamiliar voice call his old name from a distance. He spun around to see who was calling him, but no one was there. _

"_Come on, Neal, wake up," the voice said, this time it sounded much closer. _

"_Hello?" Danny shouted back. _

_There was no answer. _

_A solitary tear streaked down his cherub-like cheek. He was alone. Ellen had left him. "Ellen!" he cried, loud and piercing, and, when he did, an odd phenomenon took place. The blue sky above him began to break apart like parts to a puzzle, until nothing remained but darkness. _

"_Neal!"_

Neal's eyes shot open and his breathing came is hurried, panicked pants as the dream dissipated from his mind. It was an odd thing to dream about his childhood—even more odd for him to dream about an actual memory. He hadn't dreamed of his time as a child in years. But the act of dreaming about such a distant time wasn't even the odd thing. Rather, it was the mention of the locket around the neck of the violin player.

Ellen's locket.

Ellen's cryptic words from all those years ago finally clicked into place. He knew where Ellen's locket was.

"Easy, you're going to be alright," a soft-spoken voice assured, alerting Neal to another presence in the room.

"Who...?"

"Shhh...godda stay quiet. Can't alert the guards or Dennis," was the simple response before Neal felt the ropes around his wrists loosening.

"Dennis?" he asked, voice weak and slurred. The longer he was conscious, the more the pain from his wounds made itself known. "As in...Dennis Flynn?" He should have known. When his torturer had mentioned James Bennett and had called him Mr. Bennett, he should have realized whose web he had been caught in. He blamed his concussion for the breach in his usually suave mind.

"Smart kid," his rescuer replied. "Who'd you think had you in their clutches?" The ropes fell loose to the ground before the man started working on the ropes around his chest and legs.

Neal was about to respond when a jolt of pain shot through his midsection when the ropes strapping his upper body to the chair and pole fell loose. He couldn't stifle his pained groan.

"Easy," the man behind him coached. "We're gonna get you to a hospital. Burke will meet you there, keep you safe 'till this whole thing blows over," he added, removing the blindfold from around Neal's eyes.

Neal didn't know what to do or say, so he opted for silently trying to control the pain and his breathing. Not that he could do much more. Even the smallest of movements sent his head spinning. Subtly glancing down at himself, he saw why. He was bleeding...alot. There was a deep stab wound in his left shoulder, one in his upper right thigh, and a half a dozen other cuts varying in degrees of severity spread out across his chest, stomach and arms. Some were deep, some were shallow. Suffice it to say, his pale-blue shirt was soaked with the scarlet-red liquid.

"These all seem to be flesh wounds, nothing major has been punctured or nicked. No arteries or nerve damage," the man noted, freeing Neal's ankles of the ropes. "Dennis is nothing if not masterful with a blade. He knows where and how to cause pain without causing any permanent or life-threatening damage. Of course, if we don't get you to a hospital, you'll bleed out. Can you stand? I've already called a taxi. It'll be waiting for you down the road a bit. Come on, I'll help you outta here."

Neal just regarded the man with wide, disbelieving eyes and shook his head. "No...I...I don't think I can walk," admitting his weakness took everything he had, as he hated being regarded as an invalid. He eyed the wound in his thigh and frowned. It hadn't been long since his leg had healed from the gunshot wound he got from Agent Collins in Cape Verde, now here he was with another walking handicap that would only make his escape to the taxi all the more difficult.

"Look, I hate to play Agent Hard-ass, but if you can't help yourself out a bit, then we'll never get outta here before Flynn returns to do lord knows what else to you. No come on, up you go. I'll help you as much as I can."

Neal took a moment to regard the man now standing before him and a spark of recognition flashed in his pained eyes. "You...you were in the office...today. Agent..."

"Connors, and yes, I was in the office today. I'd apologize and give you the whole schpeel on how shitty of a person I am for putting your life at such risk, but, frankly, we don't really have the time. Now, c'mon," he said, wrapping one arm around Neal's waist to support him.

"Cowboy...up, huh?" Neal offered a strained smile as he braced himself to stand. The pain the movement caused nearly sent him over the edge. A blanket of white consumed his vision and a buzzing filled his ears. It wasn't until he heard Connors' distant voice calling his name that he opened his eyes that he didn't even realize had been closed.

"You with me?" Connors asked?

Not trusting his voice, Neal nodded in affirmation, allowing Connors to lead him from the room.

The trek from the large estate to the road was a long and tiresome one. Every fifty yards or so, they had to stop and rest for a moment, long enough for Neal to catch his breath. And when they weren't pausing for rest, they were dodging guards and other members of Flynn's gang.

It was down the forth corridor when Connors found Neal an old, polished cane in one of the forgotten closets. With the added support, they began moving a bit faster, much to Neal's relief. He wanted out of the house. He wanted to get far, far away and never return, at least, not without Peter and a whole squad of police and agents.

"Wait," Neal rasped, pausing just before the door to freedom. "I...do you have a...hammer and chisel...by chance?"

Connors raised an eyebrow at the random question and regarded Neal for the moment, as if contemplating something. "What for?"

Shrugging weakly, Neal replied, "I have to get something from safe keeping. It's hidden pretty well. I need some tools to retrieve it."

"The locket?" Connors gasped. "You know where Ellen's locket is, don't you?" he chuckled, sounding relieved. "We'll be passing the shed on the way to the road. I'm sure there's some tools in there," he added, removing his black dress-coat and helping Neal into it. "You don't need to be catching a chill out there, not with your wounds. Come on. Dennis will be checking up on you soon. You don't want to be here when he discovers you're gone."

"What about you?" Neal asked, grateful for the added warmth of the coat as they stepped out into the night time air.

"I'll be fine. He thinks I'm out surveying Burke," Connors smirked.

"I see," Neal murmured. "So, Agent Connors...how do you fit into all of this?" he asked.

The agent sighed. "I'm undercover," he replied. "Have been ever since your father turned state evidence against the Flynn organization all those years ago. I was supposed to be arrested for corruption, which I must say, was a false charge. I just so happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, like your father. I cut a deal with the F.B.I, though.

They, primarily, Director Bancroft, kept me out of prison, so long as I took part in a highly secretive undercover operation. You see, bringing down the Flynn organization, and other factions of the mob, has sort of been Director Bancroft's little side project for decades. Primarily, the link between the Flynn's and the corruption in the government. We know that there's a slew of corrupt government officials working in leagues with the Flynn organization. Ellen, back when she was still an active detective, had done a lot of her own research connecting the dots, gathering evidence and filling in the blanks that myself and Bancroft couldn't fill. She was determined to clear James' name, and mine," he allowed himself a small smile as he talked about Ellen. "She put all of her findings on a chip. If we can get a hold of it, we'll not only have the evidence to put the Irish mob away for a very long time, but we'll also have the evidence needed to eradicate all the corrupt officials from the bureau and other government departments, including Kramer."

Neal took a few moments to process the information and connect the dots in his head. If ever he experienced a sensation of information overload, it was now. He had a feeling that whatever his father had gotten mixed up in was pretty big and nasty, but to now know just what sort of valuable information Ellen's locket contained...it was overwhelming. He needed help. He needed Peter. He didn't want to be caught in the midst of the mounting corruption and chaos alone, not when he alone held the key to bringing about an end to the decades-old mess.

The rest of the way to the road was spent in relative silence. They had found the tools Neal needed in the shed, and were nearly to the road when there was an eruption of shouting from the estate.

"Well, that didn't take long," Connors commented, just as the taxi pulled up. He flung to back door open and helped Neal inside before greeting the driver and flashing his F.B.I. badge. This young man is a witness to a crime. He is hurt and is to be taken to the nearest hospital. Can you do that?"

The taxi driver, who looked to Neal to be nothing more than a wannabe hippie, nodded fiercely, casting a worried gaze towards the back seat.

"Thank you," Connors said. "Neal, get the locket, and stay safe. I'll contact you soon."

"I can't thank you enough," Neal said. "Be careful," and, with that, the taxi took off towards the city.

The drive was relatively relaxing, well, as relaxing as a taxi ride while bleeding to death could be. The meager bandages that Connors had managed to wrap around the wounds had long been soaked through. He knew he needed a hospital, but he also knew he needed to get that locket. So much was riding on that blasted locket.

"Hey..." he mumbled, addressing the driver. "Can you drop me off at Central Park?" he inquired.

The driver furrowed his brow and sighed. "Your friend wants me to get you to a hospital. And, no offense buddy, but you don't look to be in the condition to be wandering around no park."

"I know, and I have every intention of getting to a hospital. There's just something I need to get first. Please."

For a few minutes, the driver didn't say anything, he just kept driving towards the city. "Look, I'll drop you off there, but don't be stupid. Get yourself some help, fast."

Neal's lips twitched into a smirk while he cast his weary gaze out the window, watching as the lights of the city drew closer and closer. With any luck, he'd get the locket, deliver it to Peter, and, wah-lah, case closed.

"Hey, sir?" Neal felt someone shaking his shoulder and his bleary eyes cracked open enough to see the taxi driver frowning down at him, concern evident in his big hazel eyes. "You fell asleep," he noted, gesturing towards Central Park. "We're here."

Getting his bearings, Neal offered a small smile and reached for the handle. "How much?" he asked, reaching for his wallet in his back pocket.

The driver held up a hand. "This one is on the house. Just, be careful, alright?"

"Thank you," Neal said, using the cane to step from the cab.

It didn't take long for him to spot the statue. After all, it was his favorite in all of New York. And, as Ellen had used it to store her secret treasure, Neal had used it to store the ring he was going to give Kate—a ring he ended up trading for Peter's life a couple years ago when Keller had the agent kidnapped.

A soft smile danced on his lips as he limped his way towards the statue. It was late, so pedestrian traffic was minimal. That, and it was bitterly cold outside, making it a fine evening to enjoy indoors, with a bottle of wine and a fresh canvas just waiting to be transformed into some random masterpiece. But here he was, hurt, limping, and on the verge of passing out.

Once he reached the statue, he withdrew the tools from the coat pockets and got to work. It was a difficult task. Decades of being trapped beneath the thin metal had made the job of freeing the locket quite difficult—so difficult that by the time he had the precious treasure in the palm of his shaking right hand, his breathing was short and raspy and a thin sheen of sweat covered him from head to toe.

His adrenaline gone, the thin hammer he had used slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the sidewalk just before he himself collapsed to his knees. He hastily looped the locket around his neck, tucking it beneath his shirt just before his strength gave out. His last thought before consciousness fled him was that the violin player really was the most beautiful, extraordinary statue in all of New York.

_**To be continued**_

**Thoughts? Questions? Complaints? Reviews? You know what to do :)**


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